


Mother/Father/Uncle

by Dragonsandducks



Series: Ducktales Oneshots [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Cake Disaster, Family, Fluff, Gen, It's like a sitcom, sabrewing sisters!!!!!, scrooge's age is catching up with him, suck on back pain old man, this was supposed to be fluff i don't know what happened, webby has weird taste in food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonsandducks/pseuds/Dragonsandducks
Summary: In the span of a year, the triplets (and Webby) have gone from having one parental figure to three. All living under the same roof.What could go wrong?





	1. Just Like Old Times

The mansion is never quiet. 

It's the one thing Donald and Scrooge have bonded over since Donald moved back in, lamenting their lack of peace and relaxation. When Della jokes they should take a spa day, they seriously consider it for a good minute.

The kids never seem to run out of energy (well, except Louie). And just when everything starts to calm down, the Sabrewing sisters come over and the energy gets shot to 100 once more.

"Blasted kids," Scrooge mumbles, leaning on pillows to rest his sore back. "Did the adventure not tire them out?" He rests his feet on the coffee table in front of the couch, earning him a dirty look from a passing Beakley.

Donald doesn't even look up from his book, but reaches over and gives Scrooge a half-comforting and half-condescending pat on the shoulder. "They're kids, Uncle Scrooge."

At that moment, Della rushes by, firing at Dewey with a nerf gun. She comes to a screeching halt in front of the uncles, practically bouncing on her toes. "You guys wanna join?" 

They both shake their heads, slight horror in their eyes. "Suit yourselves!" She takes off again, nearly falling down the stairs as she rushes up them. Scrooge sighs, pinching his bill. 

"I don't know how she does it," he mutters, a hint of jealously in his voice. "Keeping all that energy. Probably sapping it from me."

There's a snort from Donald. "You're just old," he says, lowering his book to snicker at Scrooge. 

"Childish as kids, the both of ye," he says. 

"We weren't this bad when we were kids."

"Oh, you didn't have to raise you."

"Thank god," Donald says. He goes back to his book. 

Scrooge leans forward, trying to peak at the cover. Donald notices, and turns the book ever-so-slightly away. Scrooge leans further, and then he pulls his back again. He leans back on the pillows gingerly. "You did that on purpose."

"You can't prove anything, old man." 

Scrooge harrumphs. "Don't call me old, _molter_."

"That's low."

"I could go lower." Scrooge looks to the ceiling, taking in the bland beige color. _Maybe I should paint the ceiling_, he thinks. Then his back twinges and he pushes the thought aside. "Sometimes," he says to Donald, lolling his head to look at his nephew, "I wonder where you get your lip from."

Della, who has just reentered the room, bursts into giggles. "Oh my god," she says through gasps. Donald looks at her over his book to make sure she isn't hyperventilating. "You are so self-unaware."

Scrooge lets out a gasp. "I am not!"

"Yes. On an unrelated note, has anyone ever told you how generous you are?" Della asks, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

Scrooge's chest puffs with pride. "I will have you know, I'm quite the philanthropist." 

This time, both twins laugh. Donald holds out his hand for a high five, and Della slams her hand into his so hard it turns red. "Ow," they say in unison, holding their hands in pain. 

"Couple of kids," Scrooge mutters, shaking his head.

"But you love us," Della says. 

"Depends on the day."

Della fakes a dramatic gasp, then falls onto the arm of the couch, laughing. She leans her head on Donald's shoulder and looks at Scrooge upside-down. "So, this is what it's been like the past ten years?" 

Donald and Scrooge share a concerned look. "You didn't tell her?" Donald says.

"I thought you would!" 

Donald shakes his head. "Crazy old man."

Della's smile falters and disappears. "Tell me what?"

Another look, Donald and Scrooge trying to mentally decide who's going to tell her. 

They start at the same time. "The thing is-" They pause, and try again. "After you-" Another pause and another attempt. "When you-"

"Spit it out!" Della yells, all her humor replaced with the McDuck temper. 

Donald looks at Scrooge, who nods. "Della," Donald begins. "When you took the spear, Scrooge and I had... A falling out." 

Della looks heartbroken. "Oh," she says quietly. "Because of me?"

"No," Scrooge says, too quickly. "Well, yes. But no. It was because of me." He looks down at the floor.

"It was me, too," Donald says. "I blamed Scrooge. I was mad."

"We both were," Scrooge says.

Della swallows. "So... when did you..."

"Last year." 

Della nods like she understands, like everything hasn't been shattered in front of her. "But things are better now," she says slowly, looking back up at Donald and Scrooge. "They seem better."

"They are," Donald says, and he means it. "A lot better." There's a moment where he pauses, deciding what to say. "Sometimes it feels like it never even happened."

"You're lying," Della says immediately. "I've always been able to tell when you were lying, Donnie." She slips back into the old nickname, the one she knows Donald hates, without meaning to, but Donald smiles.

"You haven't called me that since you got back," he says fondly, and a mischievous smile plays on his face. "_Dumbella._"

Della groans. "Ugh, I thought you would have forgotten that." She leans all her weight on Donald, who chokes. Scrooge slides over to the edge of the couch, trying to avoid them with a grin. 

"You're crushing me!" Donald squawks. 

"Oh, am I?" Della asks teasingly, fully on top of him. 

The two bicker back and forth. Scrooge smiles softly. "Just like old times," he whispers.


	2. To Bake a Cake

The triplets’ birthday rolls around a month or so after Della’s return. She pretends not to let it bother her, that she hasn't been there for the first eleven birthdays they’ve had, that their lives advanced without her.

She decides to start making up for it by baking a cake.

“You don’t know how to make a cake,” Donald says when she offers the idea. “Unless you’ve learned in the last month.”

“How hard could it be?” Della asks, brushing him aside.

Donald sighs, shaking his head and following her into the kitchen. “I’m helping,” he says. “Otherwise you’ll burn down the house down.”

“I haven’t nearly burnt the house down since we were fifteen, _Donnie_,” Della argues. She digs around in the cupboards, pulling out items at random- measuring cups, pans, spatulas, wooden spoons.

Donald puts away everything he knows she won't need. “Don’t call me that, _Dumbella_."

“Then don’t call me Dumbella.”

"It's your name!" Donald cries, starting to preheat the oven.

Della shoves him to the side. "I can preheat the oven myself," she argues. Her hands hover over the buttons, switching back and forth between them like she can't decide. Donald rolls his eyes, pushing her back. She doesn't argue, just crosses her arms and harrumphs. 

"If you know so much about baking cake," Donald says, injecting sweetness both he and Della know is fake into his voice, "why don't you tell me the next step so I can help you get started?"

With a flourish, Della pulls a printed recipe from the counter. "I came prepared," she says proudly. "So we have to butter the pan. Easy!"

It becomes a struggle for the butter as Donald and Della push and shove trying to get it and put it in the microwave.

"I got it-"

"No you don't-!"

"Ha!"

Della slams the microwave door closed, and it smacks Donald on the head as it does. "Ow!"

“Whoops! Sorry!” Della places the pans on the counter. Donald rubs his throbbing head with a growl and a glare in his sister’s direction.

There’s a bang of the door opening just as the microwave goes off. “What in dismal downs is going on in here?” Scrooge cries, storming inside the kitchen. “And why does it smell like butter?”

Della carries the warm butter over to the pans. She spreads it over them with a smile. “We’re making cake, Uncle Scrooge! For the boys’ birthday!”

”You can bake now, can you?” Scrooge asks, inspecting the pans. “That’s new.”

With a groan, Della checks the next step of the recipe.

“That’s what I said!” Donald says. 

“We have to mix the dry ingredients,” Della says, ignoring him. She makes her way over to the pantry and throws it open. “Where do you keep the flour?” she asks Scrooge.

”You already put it on the counter, lass,” he says with a bemused smile. “Well, I won’t disturb your baking. Don’t burn the house down!” He leaves, off to do whatever the richest duck in the world does.

Della turns to look at her brother, scrutinizing him until he squirms. “The two of you are very similar,” she finally says.

Donald’s jaw drops open. “You take that back!” he cries, sounding genuinely insulted.

Della laughs, pulling open the bag of flour. It explodes in her face, coating her beak in white powder. Donald snorts. 

“Yeah, yeah, hilarious,” Della deadpans. “Pass me that measuring cup, would you?”

* * *

The triplets are waiting at the table with confusion on their faces when Della and Donald enter triumphantly, cake in hand. They’re covered in batter and there’s still a line of flour on Della’s beak, but there’s an unmistakeable gleam of pride in their eyes. 

Huey, Dewey, and Louie don’t have the heart to tell them how bad it tastes, choking down the cake with forced smiles. 

Scrooge spits it out on his first bite. “You call this cake? Tastes like-“

He doesn’t finish, as Donald and Della simultaneously smash his head into the frosting-covered mess. “I guess we do make a good team,” Della says. 

Scrooge wipes the frosting off his eyes. “It’s stuck in my feathers,” he groans. “This’ll never come out.”

”Now you understand my pain,” Donald says, flashing back to his and Della’s 18th birthday. He can still taste the buttercream. 

Webby, meanwhile, shovels the cake into her beak. “I thought it was really good!” she says. 

Della gives her a worried look. “Sweetie, you don’t have to-“

”No, that’s just Webby,” Huey says. “Maybe make this again for her birthday.” 

Della nods. “Understood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how to make cake


	3. Scrapbooks

Donald sits Della on the couch and places three heavy books on her lap. “What are these?” she asks. 

“Scrapbooks,” Donald says with a touch of pride. He sits down next to her, pulling the first one off the top of the pile. The page is heavier than Della expects, coated in pictures and glue. 

Della’s breath catches in her throat. “Are these...” 

“Baby pictures,” Donald confirms with a nod. “I thought you might want to see... what you missed.”

Della nods, head bobbing up and down. She brushes the wetness from her eyes. “Which one’s which?” she asks. 

Donald points to the first baby. “Huey,” he says. “Dewey. Louie,” he adds, pointing to the respective triplets. “We started color-coding their blankets after this so we could tell them apart.”

”We?” 

With a small smile, Donald turns the page. 

“Daisy!” Della exclaims, seeing the woman’s smiling face next to her brother’s. “Whatever happened to you two?”

”We broke up,” Donald says simply. “But stayed friends. She helped me raise the boys until she moved away to Cape Suzette.” 

He turns the page again. The boys look slightly older now, sitting in front of a birthday cake with a candle in the shape of a one on it. Behind them stands Daisy, and the two guys from Donald’s college band whose names she’s long forgotten. 

“Where are you?” Della asks. 

“I took the pictures,” Donald explains. “I’m pretty good with a camera.”

Della turns the page this time. “Oh, man, Gladstone’s _hair!_“ she laughs. “How much gel is in there?”

Donald chuckles. “Half a bottle, I’d guess.” 

The next page is of the boys in Cape Suzette. They’re in some art museum, with Daisy. “We went to visit,” Donald says. “I didn’t have many friends in the city.”

Della tries to feel like it isn’t her fault. Donald certaintly doesn’t seem to blame her. 

He skips a few pages, of the triplets in the house and at friends’, on birthdays and holidays. “Here we go,” he says. “First day of kindergarten.”

The triplets don’t seem like they’ve changed a bit. Huey holds a book too large for his young frame, Dewey is slightly blurry from moving too much, and Louie looks bothered with both of them. 

“I missed so much...” Della’s voice is soft, filled with guilt and self-loathing and a million other feelings she could never put into words. 

Donald gives her a sympathetic look and squeezes her shoulder. “But you’re here now.” He looks down at the scrapbook. “And with these, it’s like you never missed a thing.”

Della gives into a smile. 

“I’ve got vhs tapes and dvds,” Donald says in a sing-song voice. 

“Yes,” Della says immediately. “Absolutely.”

Donald closes the scrapbook. “Wanna see the video of me juggling the eggs?”

”Sure- wait, you did _what_?” 

Donald chuckles.

”Who are you and what have you done with my brother?!” Della cries jokingly. 

“I was trying to impress my friends!” Donald argues. 

“So you juggled my sons?!”

”YOU DID WHAT?” Scrooge cries, freezing in the doorway. 

Donald waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Wanna watch some old videos of the kids?” 

Scrooge’s eyes light up, and he joins Della on the couch. “Start the picture show, Donald!”


End file.
